Possess Me Please (2 page)

Isabelle laughed and flipped the water off.
Sounds as though I need a masseuse and maid instead of a man.

A serious relationship, one which entailed a man taking care of her at all, wasn’t possible. She had little time to put into such a union, and she hadn’t yet met a man who didn’t hightail it out of her life as if his ass were on fire as soon as he found out what she could do.

She towel dried, went into the bedroom, climbed into bed, and snuggled under the fluffy blanket. Isabelle began drifting to sleep when the phone rang, and she nearly jack-knifed off the bed at the unexpected noise.

She calmed her heartbeat and snatched it up on the third ring. “Hello.”

“Hey, Isabelle. How did your session go?” Nina Franklin, her best friend, made a habit of calling her after each session.

“I’m okay. Tired as usual.” Isabelle pressed the back of her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn.

“I wish I could make you a potion for that, too. You know, you should let me show you how to make your anchoring potion. I worry about you. I mean, really. Spirits possessing your body? I can’t imagine how yucky that would be.”

Isabelle giggled. “Now why would I need to learn how to make the potion when my best friend in the whole wide world can do it for me?”

Nina hesitated. “What if I wasn’t available for some reason, and you ran out?”

“Hey! Are you trying to tell me something? Wait, are you and Mark getting married and moving away?” Mark and Nina were the perfect match, and it was beyond Isabelle’s comprehension as to why they hadn’t gotten married yet.

“Whoa! I am not the marrying type, and Mark knows it, even though he has tried to convince me otherwise on more than one occasion. No, Isabelle, I simply want to know you are always safe.”

“Thanks, but as you know, I keep a generous supply of your potion on hand. I’m fine, really. Are you sure there isn’t more? You sound kind of, I don’t know…weird.”  What Isabelle did was dangerous, and she was thankful to have a friend who cared about her, but she wasn’t going to stop doing her sessions.

“Well, I didn’t want to tell you, and it isn’t anything I’m sure of…”

She could hear the worry in Nina’s voice as it trailed off. Isabelle sat up straight in bed. “Tell me.”

“I keep sensing something profound is going to happen to you. But before you go and get all upset, I don’t get the feeling it is something bad…necessarily.”

Isabelle frowned. “What do you mean by
necessarily
?”

“I don’t know exactly what it is, but something is going to happen to change your life, and it’s going to coincide with your next session.”

Isabelle slumped back on the bed and cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear. “Well, I guess as long as it isn’t anything
bad
, I don’t have anything to worry about.” The other end of the line remained silent. “Nina? You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. I don’t know. It’s just going to be a significant change. I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more, but you know how lacking in detail my visions can be.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay. I appreciate the warning.”

“Hey, do you want me to go with you?”

“Nah. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know as soon as this
profound
thing happens, okay?”

“Okay. Just promise you’ll be careful?”

“I always am, Nina.”

“I know. But you know I worry about you.”

“I know.”

“Love you, hon.”

“I love you too, Nina. Now I have to get off this phone, or you will be listening to me snore.”

Nina laughed. “Be careful and have a safe trip. Call me when you get back.”

“All right. And, Nina?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being such a wonderful, caring friend.”

“It goes both ways, Isabelle.”

“It does, indeed.”

After Nina said goodbye, Isabelle hung up the phone.

What the hell was that all about? What could happen to her that would change her life profoundly that wasn’t bad?

She punched her pillow and burrowed back down under the blankets.
Guess I’ll have to wait and see.

Isabelle lay in the dark and drifted to sleep with lingering thoughts dancing in her mind.

Chapter Two

He was seriously pissed off, and his bullshit meter was in the red and ready to blow. Soul-demons were made for one thing, taking souls from bodies, and he was past tired of not being able to do what he was made for. Walking the Earth—or bowels of Hell, whichever—for thousands of years equaled the taking of thousands of souls. Yet he hadn’t deprived one damn body of its soul for the last fifty years. Why? Because he’d unwittingly allowed a bitch of a witch to put a binding spell on him.

He’d slipped up and let his dick do the thinking.

Since then, he had been trapped in his true form—or rather, a formless state of fog—floating around, only half existing.

He could remember that night as if it were yesterday. He had been living inside the body of the former Jack Nixon—good old fucked-up Jack, the murdering rapist who had deserved to have his corrupted soul ripped from his body—when he met the little witch, Lily. She had intrigued him with her big blue eyes, wheat blonde hair, big tits, and shapely ass. Yeah, the shapely ass was probably what had gotten him in over his head.

The shapely ass is undeniably what got you in trouble, you idiot.

If there was one thing he enjoyed nearly as much as taking souls, it was taking women. And he had known instantly that Lily would give as good as she got. Except he had never gotten the chance to find out. Somehow the witch had known what he was and tricked him.

Lily had lured him to her bed, and, just when things started getting interesting, she’d chanted her spell and bound him in his demon-spirit form before he realized what she’d been up to.

If there was one weakness all males had in common, it was thinking with their dicks. War wasn’t the downfall of man. Pussy was. He had been too sure of himself, too sure of his past experiences with women, too cocky, and thoroughly blindsided. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

In one uncharacteristic moment, one split second, he had let his guard down, and she’d pounced. She had never let him explain that he was an Akem soul-demon who took only the bodies of those who were truly evil. Instead, she had immediately condemned him as an abomination.

Most humans, at least the ones who knew of his kind’s existence, considered him an abomination for no other reason than because he was different. Humans didn’t like things they couldn’t explain away, and he was undeniably unexplainable in their minds.

He had wanted to ring Lily’s graceful neck at the time. There were too many murders, rapes, and abuses being committed that he could stop. He had a conscience, damn it, and he helped people by removing harmful assholes off the streets.

But his anger at Lily had faded over time, as he came to an understanding of why she had done what she had. She thought she’d been doing the right thing, because she had confused him with Creod soul-demons. Even though technically the Creod were his brothers—he preferred to think of them as the yin to his yang—he hated the cold bastards. They were non-discriminatory in their hunts and didn’t care whose soul they stole—women’s, children’s, men’s—it didn’t matter. All were prey to them.

He considered himself one of the
good guys,
although that might be stretching the truth a bit. He tried to be fair and honest, and he truly wanted to erase evil off the face of the earth, even though, deep down, he knew it was an impossible task—this, ironically, coming from a creature born of Hell.

He was judge and jury of the unsavory, and dealt quick, irrevocable sentences that were always the same—one-way tickets to Hell. There were times, though, when the sentence wasn’t quick, like when he came upon an exceptionally evil soul. Those got his
special
treatment. The kind of special that consisted of him drawing out the suffering for as many long, agonizing breaths as possible.

If getting satisfaction from an evil soul’s realization that there would be no chance for its survival, and the sheer terror that set in as a result, made him unsavory, so be it. Cyrus fed off that fear and enjoyed the knowledge that he gave it a taste of the agony so many of its victims had endured.

The murderer would experience the panic, the sadness, the anguish of knowing that he would never see a loved one again. The rapist would feel defeated, used, angry, and ashamed. The abuser would feel the frustration, the fear, the anxiety of wondering when the next blow would come. The molester would feel the confusion, the complete helplessness that a child felt at the hands of an adult who should be the protector instead of the inflictor of pain.

Relief bled through him like thick molasses, something he’d not experienced in fifty years. It was almost time to resume his duties. The witch’s soul was slipping from her earthbound body. He could feel it happening at this moment, and when she drew her last breath, the spell would be broken.

He took a deep breath and felt the invisible ropes binding him slowly unwind, tendril by tendril.
So close
. The witch was nearing her last breath. He waited in anticipation of his freedom.

Then, as suddenly as he had been bound, he was freed.

Cyrus sighed in relief and immediately began hunting for a meat suit, as he liked to call his earthly host.

His nearly invisible form—appearing to anyone who might spy him as nothing more than a trail of mist—floated through the streets until he found a particularly seedy part of town. A bar with a large neon sign blinking over it that used to say
Ruby’s
before the B burnt out sat like a beacon of invitation. About thirty motorcycles were parked out front, and the deep thumping base of music playing inside spilled out into the streets and floated through the night breeze.

Yeah, this was the kind of place one could find some evil son of a bitch to possess. If Cyrus had had a nose, he was sure he’d be able to smell the depravity wafting in the air.

He drifted inside and floated over the occupants. The waitresses were hardened to the pawing and rude behavior of the men, and appeared worn, frazzled, and tired. Probably had a houseful of kids to get home to and a deadbeat husband lying on the couch drinking beer and watching sports—or porn—on a tiny television with aluminum foil wrapped around the rabbit ears.

The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke, booze, piss, and body odor. The brown paneling was old and peeling in several places, and the wood floor had several mismatched boards from patch jobs. Most of the ugly, chocolate-brown bar stools had tears in the seats, and the bartender was sitting behind the bar puffing on a cigar.

Cyrus observed the occupants for a while. Three drunks—two with beer bellies, and the third an old skinny guy—sat at the bar, each with a glazed-over sloshed dullness in their eyes. When he peeked into their minds—mind reading was a curse and perk all rolled into one neat ball—there was nothing in them but the fog of a blissful high. Ten greasy bikers surrounded the pool table, placing bets on the next shot, anticipation running high of a possible win and even higher at the prospects of a fight. A group of men playing cards sat at two tables pushed together, holding on to the last shred of hope that enough money would be won to buy the next fix of drugs. None of them were prime prospects, but then…

Sitting in a dark corner were a man and a petite, red-haired woman. Cyrus drifted closer and listened to their thoughts and conversation.

The man’s name was Jimmy and the woman’s, Daisy. Not that names mattered much since he used his own name, Cyrus Drakar, once he took possession of a body. He was a pretty decent looking guy—tall, thick black hair, and clear gray eyes. Cyrus didn’t want to be vain, but, hell, if he was going to putter around in someone else’s body for a while, he wanted to be good looking. If he took the man’s body, the first act he’d perform in his new digs would be showering with lots of soap.

“Look, you’ll do what I tell you.” Jimmy’s voice came low and threatening. “You understand?”

“Jimmy, please don’t ask me to do this.” Daisy wrung her hands then suddenly stopped, dropping them to her lap as if trying to avoid drawing attention to the action.

Jimmy slapped her across the face then leaned close. “I’m not asking.”

Daisy didn’t cry. She sat, numb, as if used to the abuse.

Apparently, Jimmy had a drug distributing business going on and wanted Daisy to play whore to his potential customers. Jimmy seemed a bit too pleased with his abuse of Daisy, as if he were proud of the way he had her too scared to do anything but what he told her to do. He’d threatened to kill her if she left him, and she was obviously too frightened to do so. Cyrus had no doubt Jimmy would carry out his threat, since he had killed before. Daisy’s time would be limited if she stayed with Jimmy, and she wanted out…bad. If Cyrus took his body, he would be helping Daisy and saving countless others that Jimmy might come across in his lifetime.

The way Jimmy’s brain replayed the horrible things he’d done, relishing them, as though those memories would tide him over until he could perform some other depraved act, made Cyrus itch to get his hands on the bastard.

The anticipation of getting a body after fifty years crept through him, warmed him, excited him.

Almost as good as sex.

He called upon all his self-control, waiting impatiently for the bar to close before following Jimmy and Daisy back to their crappy, tiny trailer in an even seedier part of town. He wanted to wait until the over-indulgence of alcohol lulled Jimmy into the false security of sleep before taking his body, but if the bastard started rutting all over Daisy, he’d do it before Jimmy could hurt her again.

Thankfully, as soon as the two got inside, Jimmy fell face down onto the couch. Daisy went to the cramped bedroom in the back. Cyrus waited until Daisy was asleep and made his move.

He floated over his next body and pushed through the middle of Jimmy’s back.

Cyrus looked forward to the fight that would momentarily ensue, especially since he always won. Souls were not easy to steal. They were resilient, tough, had a zest for life. He hadn’t yet met a soul that was keen on the idea of death.